


A Rebirth of Wonder

by Kingkiwi



Series: Starlight [2]
Category: K-pop, VIXX
Genre: Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Growing Old, Supernatural Elements, Tea, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingkiwi/pseuds/Kingkiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ravi wasn’t born. He became. He evolved, transformed, grew from abandoned memories into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is a side-story that tells of Ravi’s origins and the beginning of his epic friendship with Ken. It may not be completely necessary to read the first story to understand this one, but it is highly recommended. 
> 
> and I am perpetually awaiting  
> a rebirth of wonder  
> “I Am Waiting” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

“Aaand if we subtract 6.5%, then this here will be our net profit, right?” Ken asked, poking at a number at the bottom of the paper and looking up at Ravi for confirmation. 

Ravi smiled. “Sure is. I think you’ve finally got the hang of this whole co-owner thing.” He sipped his tea, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Yes!” Ken crowed, pumping a fist into the air. He danced a little victory jig, upsetting the stacks of paper sprawled across one of the tables. They were going over the financials for the last quarter, making sure Ken completely understood all of the numbers and paperwork that he was now partially responsible for. 

“This calls for a victory coffee!” he shouted from behind the counter, having disappeared after stopping the papers from spilling to the floor. 

Shaking his head, Ravi collected their paperwork, slid it into the correct folder, and returned it to his box of boring financial records that normally languished in the café’s only room with a lock. He brushed his hands on his jeans before taking another sip of his tea. The clangs and gurgling of Ken traipsing around behind the counter making coffee was comforting and familiar.

Ravi rested his head on his hand, elbow planted on the tabletop. He swirled his mug and stared into the churning tea. “I remember when I first met you, Ken,” he murmured, a private smile half-hidden by his hand.

“What?” Ken yelled, sticking his head around a shelf. “You say something?”

He just shook his head.

Ken’s face disappeared and the metallic clanking and off-tune humming resumed. 

***

Ravi wasn’t born. He _became_. He evolved, transformed, grew from a gently floating ball of light into something more. 

His first thought was confusing. What exactly this thought was has been lost to time, but the sheer novelty and wonder of the experience never left him. “Wonder” was new to him, as new to him as thoughts. He could feel things. He could think about the things he felt! _What a wonderful place to exist_ , he thought. _Here I am. I am something, something that can think and feel_. 

_I am Ravi._

It took him a while to figure out he was different than all of the other glowing brothers and sisters who were warm and bright, but deathly quiet. Their warmth was mindless, droning, unfeeling, unthinking. They helped him when he was lonely or starting to grow cold. All he had to do was touch and their heat would flood him and make him feel alive. 

But I’m not alive, he thought, looking at the people around him. They were humans. _I’m not like them, with their insides moving and living. What am I?_

That took even longer to figure out. Long enough that he learned to force his form to change from an orb to an animal or human before he found the answer. He could look like them, smile like them, feel emotions and think like them, but he wasn’t living like them. He couldn’t touch or be touched. He couldn’t be seen. For a long time, this didn’t bother him. The ability to pass through any person or structure, unlimited and unseen, made it easy to indulge his curiosity about anything and everything around him. 

He wandered; the hunger to see everything and everyone, to feel all there was to feel taking him over, driving him from “home” and across continents. Ravi learned the names of things, their purposes. Like a wandering ghost, Ravi hitched rides on camels, carts, and horses, seeing large pools of water ( _oh, it’s called a lake_ ) and crossing into divided lands claimed and ruled by different humans. He cared not for human laws and boundaries, going where and when he pleased. These were Da Xing’an Ling, earth rising majestically toward the sky. This was Gobi, full of sand and sun. Lake Balkhash. A knife was for cutting and a lamp was for light, though he had no problem seeing in the dark. So-called rulers of men, like Wang Heun, Emperor Zhū Yuánzhāng, Her Majesty Queen Isabella I, or was it King Henry VII handed down decrees, determined life and death. Humans were fascinating creatures, speaking in rapid tongues that Ravi could somehow always understand. _It’s because I speak the language of the heart, the soul,_ something he knew without being taught. 

These unfathomable years of drifting through places and people, never being able to speak aloud and hear his own voice eventually changed something in him. Ravi was no longer content with passing through humans like a wraith, not even able to give them a chill. His growing mind demanded more than his warm, but mute, siblings could provide.

 _Come, my silent sister._ Ravi reached out, gently cupping the floating orb of light and drawing it closer. _We don’t have to be alone anymore._ The orb melted into his fingers, still glowing like quicksilver, and spread up his arm. The warmth hit, making Ravi pulse with light and blotting out the loneliness that ached inside of him. _I want to feel,_ he thought, looking longingly at the trees around him. _Not just feelings in my mind. I want to touch something, interact with the world around me._ The warmth inside him beat like the ghostly approximation of a heart. His desire was so strong that he felt compelled to reach out to something. 

Heat pooled at the palm of his hand, and there was rough bark against his fingers. At last, at last he was able to feel. 

If he were able to, Ravi would have wept. 

It was after that moment that he could truly say he was alive. With enough practice, he could feel things all the time until staying in a solid state barely taxed his energy at all. Ravi became visible to all who passed. The new phase of his existence was both exhilarating and frightening: now he had to behave, obey social conventions and human laws. When it got to be too much, as it sometimes did, he allowed himself to fade back to his ghostly self and pass by unseen and unheard. 

Though Ravi enjoyed this immensely, there was still something wrong. He always looked the same while the people around him changed. They were born, grew old, and died. He never grew old and he never died. He was never sick or wounded, and if he stayed too long in one place, people became suspicious or angry, calling for his death in Mandarin, Spanish, or English. So he continued to wander despite his ability to interact with humans. Friends were only temporary and sex was something he couldn’t understand and didn’t have a desire for. Instead, he connected with trees and nature, his brother and sister spheres, and places. 

His long-developed love for cozy, private spaces and desire for a quiet life of solitude after untold years of travel and change made it a relatively easy decision to open up a shop. Ravi wanted to try playing by human laws for a while and see if that gave him the sense of peace and comfort that it took him a long time to realize he’d been chasing. Maybe he’d be able to erase that chilly disconnected feeling that existed between him and every human he’d met. 

Ravi learned the art of blending flavors and steeping tea leaves from the Chinese, and watched as the drink slowly made its way to England via the Dutch and Portuguese. Though the drink was not well known, it was one of the first things Ravi had actually tasted and the memory was as strong and warming as the memory of finally being able to feel the rough bark of a tree. 

It was perfect. He opened a small coffee house in an out-of-the-way corner, not really caring to have many customers. He drank much of his own tea, served the few people who were willing to spend money, and didn’t worry all too much about profit. He didn’t need to eat or drink to survive, and it hardly mattered if he stayed in business. He just enjoyed having a place to rest for a while, having a place of his own. 

And so it went. His business was mildly successful and his favorite part, aside from the many varieties of tea he got to try, was the different people he met. Though they all shared a similar composition and form, they were inexplicably different. He felt the unbreakable distance lessen when he talked with the smaller ones, perhaps an echo of his own origins. Interacting with people, a confirmation of his own tangibility, was really his joy.

***

London 1657

A quiet sound roused Ravi from his chair. 

He did not sleep and therefore had no need of a bed, and found that he preferred to rest sitting in a chair pushed up against the wall. Instead of sleep, he usually closed his eyes and let his mind drift away. Sometimes he remembered the places he’d been or his days as a sentient but formless orb, longing for something more. This night he thought of nothing in particular and remained marginally aware of his surroundings. 

Ravi emerged from his trance-like state, ear perked to see if the noise came again. 

Sure enough, the sound of the metal latch rattling came from the front door. The inside of the coffee house was pitch black, but he had excellent vision even in the dark. He could tell that the front door was moving very faintly as if someone were pushing against it. He silently rose from his chair, only half solid. Sometimes he lost himself while in his half-asleep, half-meditative state and lost his physical form. The clattering grew louder and more frantic before ending with a loud click.

All fell silent and not even Ravi’s breath stirred the air. He didn’t actually breathe, anyway, but he did grin a little bit. Something unusual was happening. 

After a beat of silence, the door swung open, squealing on unoiled hinges. Ravi fully relinquished his physical body, becoming invisible to normal humans, and peered out the door, intrigued. The doorway was empty. All he could see was the ghostly shape of buildings across the street and the scampering outline of a rat passing by.

Frowning, he moved closer, only to rear back in shock when something small and quick darted through him and into the coffee house. 

Ravi’s superior vision meant that he could make out the form of a small boy about to run headfirst into the back counter. No doubt the child wasn’t able to see where he was going, too desperate to find a place to hide. Ravi moved to him faster than a thought and shoved himself back into the physical realm in a split second, just managing to catch the boy’s shoulders and save him from quite a headache. 

The boy yelped when he was jerked backwards. 

Realizing he was captured, he turned into a ball of fury, all tearing nails, flying feet, and gnashing teeth. Ravi was slightly startled, just enough to make his solid body flicker. 

Free of Ravi’s grasp, the boy made a break for the door, tripping onto his knees once, but desperately dragging himself up without losing a moment.

“Wait!” Ravi called, hardly knowing where the word came from. The boy stumbled to halt, rocking on the balls of his bare feet. He peered blankly into the darkness, waiting for the mysterious voice to continue. 

Something unexplainable had arisen in Ravi, a feeling he’d never had before, not in his over 300 years of “life.” He didn’t want this boy to run from his shop and disappear into the darkness.

“Please wait,” he repeated, ever so slowly stepping forward. The light of the moon would serve to illuminate him and hopefully convince the boy that there was nothing to fear. He paid extra care to ensure he was solid and visible to the nervous child. As Ravi approached, the boy shuffled back, clutching the doorframe for support. The moonlight washed over Ravi’s bare feet, his legs, chest, and when it finally reached his face, the boy gasped, one hand jerking to his mouth. 

“Your hair’s white!” he whispered, awed. “But you’re not old.” 

A giddy feeling washed over Ravi and he couldn’t help but to think, you have no idea. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “Do you want something to eat?” 

The boy’s eyes went wide and his grimy fingers flexed on the woodwork.

“Let me light a lamp and get some tea and bread,” Ravi coaxed, careful not to make any sudden movements.

The boy frowned at him and nervously chewed on his bottom lip, but didn’t take off into the street, which was promising. “Why would you give me anything?” he finally asked. “I can’t pay for it.”

Well, that was a good question. The truth of it was, “I don’t care about getting paid. I’m just lonely here all by myself and you seem like good company.” 

“Nobody ever told me I was good anything…” the boy whispered while leaning forward, not intending Ravi to hear him. It looked like his body was moving toward the offer of food but his mind was resisting, still stuck in flight mode. 

“Hey,” Ravi continued, “You can even leave after you eat if you want. I have no intention of forcing you to stay here or getting you in trouble for breaking in.” 

Finally, finally, the boy took a step closer, letting his hand slide free of the doorframe. Ravi moved back to find some bread and give to boy plenty of space. “So,” he said, pulling a heavy lamp from an alcove. Turning so his body hid the lamp, he pinched the wick and focused, feeling a pop and a wave of fatigue when a flame slowly took hold. “What’s your name? My name is Ravi.” He set the lamp on the counter and turned to light the stove so he could put water on to boil. 

“I’m Ken,” the young voice replied. 

Ravi pulled the leftover bread out, surprised to see that Ken was already seated at a table, legs swinging back and forth. “How’d you light that lamp? And the stove?” the boy asked, eyes big and dark. 

_Uh oh,_ Ravi thought, _this kid’s smarter than I thought_. “The lamp was…already lit,” he haltingly explained, trying and failing to come up with something plausible. 

Ken scowled, his disbelief and indignation erasing his trepidation, at least temporarily. “No it wasn’t. When I came in, it was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. And there’s no way you struck the lamp with flint.” He looked absolutely sure of himself, expression almost daring Ravi to try and lie to him. The poor kid was probably used to lies everywhere he went. 

Sighing, Ravi plunked the bread onto the table. Ken watched greedily though he tried to disguise his interest. “Go ahead,” Ravi nodded, glad to see that the boy was warming up. The half-loaf disappeared from the center of the table in a flash. 

Ravi turned away to tend to the tea. When he returned with two steaming cups, the bread was nowhere in sight and Ken was selectively licking his dirty fingers. He looked completely unabashed when their eyes met. 

“Let me see what else I have…” Ravi said. “And watch your mouth –the tea’s hot.” 

Ken nodded profusely, eyeing the cup with curiosity and delight. As Ravi turned away, he saw Ken sticking his fingers in the wisps of steam coming off the surface of the liquid. He shook his head, already fond of the kid. On the other hand, finding more food may actually be a problem. Since Ravi didn’t need to eat, he didn’t keep any more food in the shop than absolutely necessary. At the end of each day, his goal was to sell all the perishable food so it wouldn’t go to waste. Tea he loved; food, not so much.

“Ech!” 

Ravi jerked back, whacking his head on the inside of the cabinet he was pawing through. “What? What’s wrong?” he demanded anxiously, trying to hold onto his form. It became much more difficult to hold human shape or stay physical when he was startled. Ken looked up, wrinkled his nose, and pushed the tea away. “This tastes gross! Are you sure you’re not trying to poison me?” 

Calming himself now that he knew no disaster was imminent, Ravi brought a tin of sugar and a slightly soft apple over to the table. “I’m definitely not trying to kill you, though you almost scared me to death for a second there.” He pulled Ken’s rejected cup closer, popped open the tin, and liberally sprinkled sugar into the cup, swirling it so it would mix and dissolve. “This should make it taste better, though it’s really not supposed to have sugar. It’s tea, from China.” 

Ravi scooted the drink back across the tabletop. “And the only food I have left is an apple.” He handed it over to Ken’s grasping fingers. They boy chomped on the fruit happily, sipping on his tea and loudly informing Ravi that yes, it was actually drinkable now. “But,” he said, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “You still didn’t tell me how you lit that lamp.” 

Ravi frowned. 

Just when Ken was settling down and acting like a real kid instead of a frightened rabbit, he had to bring up that question again. He dropped his hands in his arms and sighed. He was so used to being alone that he’d lit the lamp using his powers with little thought. Had he ever shared what he was with someone during the 300 years of too-long existence? No, not that he could really remember. Had he ever wanted to? Maybe once or twice, but he never came as close as he was right now. It would be so easy to tell this child anything, everything. 

Ken looked at Ravi eagerly, now gulping his tea in the dim lamplight. His face and hands were dirty and scabbed and his hair looked like it hadn’t seen soap or water since Charles I was in power. The patched and threadbare state of Ken’s clothes and his bare feet didn’t go unnoticed by Ravi even in the darkness. 

This poor, desperate boy who broke into his house, probably looking for food, was tugging at Ravi’s essence, connecting with something inside him that he couldn’t name. Ken was a wanderer, like Ravi, looking for nourishment, somewhere warm and safe. Of course, the revelation of Ravi’s true self could very easily destroy the kindly atmosphere they’d built, send Ken out the door and into the night, perhaps to break into a store whose owner wouldn’t be so forgiving. 

“Are you frightened easily?” Ravi asked suddenly. 

Ken shook his head wildly. “No way! I used to be scared when I was a kid, but not anymore! I’m eight now. I can take care of myself and I’m not afraid of anything.” 

_So says the eight-year old child_ , Ravi thought. 

“And,” Ken added, “You have white hair like an old man, so there’s no way you can be scary.” 

Ravi raised his head a few inches to stare at the boy. _Oh, the logic of children._

“Can I have more tea, Mr. Ravi? With a lot of sugar?” Ken chirped hopefully, barely giving the man time to gather his thoughts. 

“Please don’t call me ‘mister,’” Ravi replied, pushing away from the table to fetch more tea. Once it had been sufficiently sugared and Ken was happily flicking the sticky apple seeds across the table, Ravi returned to the issue at hand; the truth about who or what he was. “Alright Ken, if I tell you how I lit the lamp, you have to promise not to be scared. Think you can do that?” 

Ken’s eyes sparkled.

Ravi smiled weakly. “Watch carefully now.” 

Ken widened his eyes and tried not to blink. Ravi held his right hand over the table, palm up. Though glowing and heating up were generally a direct consequence of absorbing a brother or sister orb, he could force the energy to flow the other way, creating heat and light. It normally wasn’t necessary because he could see in the dark and didn’t need heat, but it did come in handy occasionally. The downside was that expelling a concentration amount of energy like that made him feel drained and ghost-like. 

Within seconds his hand began to glow with white light. There was no pink at all, like light passing through flesh, but instead a pure brightness unlike anything Ken had ever seen in his short life. 

“It…it kinda looks like starlight,” he whispered, leaning closer so all shadows were banished from his face. Neither Ravi nor Ken realized that a grimy hand was slowly reaching out to touch the light source. 

Ken’s fingers were mere inches from Ravi’s when he snapped his hand into a fist and the light blinked out. They weren’t plunged into complete darkness; the lamp was still flickering merrily on the counter, draping them in soft, yellow light. All the same, Ken jerked back, chair legs skittering across the uneven floor. 

The boy’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “You’re a witch, aren’t you!” he accused, crossing his arms. 

“Whoa,” Ravi defended, hands up to placate him. “One hundred percent non-witch here. Not a witchy bone in my body.” Or any bone, really, he mentally added. Ken frowned and opened his mouth to say something but Ravi cut him off. “And no, I’m not going to eat you.”

The boy’s mouth clicked shut.

“I don’t even use witch craft, I use…magic,” Ravi informed him, trying to look convincing. “Totally different.”

“O-kay,” Ken said slowly. His sharp brown eyes pierced Ravi quite uncomfortably, but the man was determined to keep a straight face. After another few seconds, Ken gave up and shrugged. “So, do you have anything else to eat?” 

Ravi laughed and that was that. 

Ken, who had lost his parents to the black sickness and had no siblings to speak of, accepted Ravi’s generous offer to stay with him in his coffee house and help out with the day to day details of running a business. 

Ken, with his quick mind and quicker fingers, was invaluable help, especially for those awkward “human” things that Ravi hadn’t quite gotten the hang of. For one, Ken was a lot better at keeping food in the house and shop, something Ravi routinely forgot. Really, he just didn’t notice.

Ravi continued to “sleep” in his chair despite Ken telling him it was weird. He purchased a mattress for his new assistant and companion to sleep on in the back room. 

The wanderlust that had forced Ravi across two continents faded, relegated to a dim corner of his mind by the bright and cheerful Ken. 

As the years passed, Ken grew. He was taller than Ravi after a while, and completely unphased by the fact that Ravi didn’t age. When Ravi asked him about it, Ken just smiled and said, “Magic,” while wiggling his fingers in a supposedly “mysterious” gesture.

Ken made that cold disconnection that Ravi felt with other humans diminish and the pair became closer than he ever would’ve expected. The first time Ken had a crush on a girl and his affections were unequivocally unrequited, Ravi was there with a sugary tea concoction, a warm hand on his shoulder, and an open ear, despite not quite understanding the feeling of romantic love. The warmth he felt around Ken, warmth like absorbing an orb but all the time, that must be love, he thought. Not love like men and women who married, but a deep, platonic love that only grew and that Ken seemed to wholeheartedly return. 

The boy –no, man- eventually transformed Ravi’s small, puttering coffee house into a proper business that actually made them money.

“You know…” Ken, now 22, said, carefully pouring two cups of tea. 

“Everything. So kind of you to say,” Ravi teased, scratching another number into the ledger where he sat at the nearest table. 

The man snorted inelegantly, dumping two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup. “I don’t know how you drink this stuff plain,” he muttered, as he always did, before replacing the tin and bringing the rattling cups and saucers over to the table. 

Ravi thanked him and pushed the ledger to the side so he could draw the cup closer and breathe in the steam. 

Ken was silent for a moment while he waited for his tea to cool, which was unusual for the chatty man. Finally, he spoke. “You remember the night we first met?” he asked, sounding contemplative. 

Ravi nodded, savoring the rich tea on his tongue. It was still his favorite human food to consume and he had at least four cups a day, something Ken often mocked him for. 

“You know, that day I was breaking in to rob you blind,” Ken continued, voice sounding tight. “I was hungry and desperate and all the lights were off, so I thought nobody was in or they’d be sleeping deeply enough not to notice.” He shook his head. “I was so stupid and loud. I can’t believe I wasn’t caught and killed three or four thefts before that.”

Ravi downed the rest of his tea and waved the empty cup at Ken. “Another, if you would.”

Smiling lopsidedly, Ken rose to his feet and padded to the back counter to pour his best friend, father-figure, and employer another cup of tea. 

When they were settled again, Ravi took a sip before answering. “Ken, I knew what you came to do the minute I heard my door rattling. I may not understand a lot of things, but I do understand desperation. I’m just glad I grabbed you before you bashed your head on the counter. From the way you were running, you probably would have knocked yourself out cold.” 

“But listen,” Ravi continued, slowly reaching over and tugging Ken’s hand to the middle of the table and holding it. He deliberately made eye contact. “Ken, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t say that lightly.” The weight of 300 years often felt like it was dragging him down like an anchor.

Ken shakily brought his cup to his lips, perhaps trying to hide his face.

“You have taught me more about being human than I ever thought I could learn. You taught me what it was to really feel, to connect to something or someone.” Ravi’s grip tightened. “No matter the circumstances that brought you to me, I would never and will never wish that you didn’t break into my coffee house that night.”

Ken’s smile was watery but grateful. 

“But.”

The word stopped Ken cold and it felt like his heart stilled in his chest for a split second. Would Ravi say he regretted it after all? The idea almost made Ken sick.

“You put way too much damn sugar in your tea. That’s not how it’s supposed to be taken, you heathen,” Ravi admonished, shaking his head and sporting sly grin.

Ken felt himself flush with warmth and broke into relieved laughter. “Shut up, old man. You’re the one whose tea tastes like river water.”

“Brat,” Ravi retorted affectionately, “Go open the door and let some light in. I feel like I’m suffocating here in the gloom.” Flicking Ravi in the arm, the young man got up again to do as asked.

***

It was a mere nine months later that their time together came to an end. 

Ken coughed wretchedly, hands scrabbling at his chest and throat. He couldn’t breathe. The simple sheet on his worn mattress was soaked through with sweat, but the cold still crept in, chilling his hands and feet. His entire body was shaking, almost convulsing in the feverish heat. 

“Ravi…” he called, voice horribly hoarse and cracking. Ravi could provide him relief, surely. Ravi always looked after him, gave him tea, let him stay. Ravi loved him, right? Where was he? Where was he? Ken’s thrashing increased and pitiful whimpers escaped from his chattering teeth. 

A hand burning hot like a brand settled on his sweaty forehead, soothing him. “Shhh.” The voice was calming, familiar, and warm in a way that didn’t make Ken feel like he’d catch fire. He turned into it and tried in vain to stop his shaking.

“Ravi…”

“I’m here, Ken. Calm down and open your mouth. I have something for you to drink.” The room was dark save for a reassuring, white glow. The stars were upon him, surely to bear him away. 

“Please, Ken. Turn this way and open your mouth.” 

Ken manage to comply despite the agony of moving. Lukewarm tea trickled across his parched lips, the taste as familiar as Ravi’s stifled laughter, the chime of the tiny bell over the shop door, and the crash of dishes. While the liquid was a blessed relief, it also sent him into another harsh coughing fit. 

When his wretched coughing finally subsided, Ken’s eyes were wet with pained tears and his breathing was naught but breathy gasps. 

“Ravi,” he choked, “I’m going….”

Even with his vision blurred and the dimness of the room, Ken could still see the tears freely dripping from Ravi’s chin.

Lightheadedness was beginning to take over and Ken knew deep in his bones that he wasn’t going to last much longer. “Don’t…leave,” he stuttered, fingers clenching compulsively. His limbs were almost completely out of his control. Ken tried to jerk his hand closer to the edge of the mattress, desperate to feel a friendly touch.

Ravi’s hands were strong, unflinching under the spastic assault of Ken’s fingers. “I’m never leaving,” he promised. Light emanated from his body, unbidden, like it could enter Ken and heal him. The only result was the sapping of Ravi’s strength and the illumination Ken’s tear-stricken face. “I will always love you. I am always with you,” he swore, pulling the knuckles of Ken’s hand to his forehead. “Don’t leave me, Ken. I… I’m not human without you.”

“Ravi.” The name was but a whisper.

Choking in sorrow and grief he didn’t know he could feel so strongly, Ravi lurched forward, letting his hand settle on the curve of Ken’s cheek. He leaned down to knock his forehead against that of the only person he loved. 

“Ken.” Uninhibited, tears that he didn’t know he could cry dripped onto Ken’s cheeks. 

One second Ravi was staring Ken’s eyes, willing him to stay, to hold on a little longer, forever, and the next, Ken’s whole body went lax and his eyes no longer stared into his own. 

The light went out.

Crushing silence suffocated the dark shop.


	2. Chapter 2

“Damn Frenchmen,” Ravi grumbled, readjusting the hat strap that was cutting into his chin while settling his musket against the cannon. The soldier beside him, Sanghyuk, merely glanced over and smirked. 

“Yeah, laugh it up you Prussian bastard,” he muttered, finally finding a place where the buckle wouldn’t pinch his skin. 

Sanghyuk rolled his eyes. “Better figure out your hat before the French attack. I hear old Napoleon’s coming at us soon, tomorrow or the day after.”

“Fantastic.”

A snort was all he got in response. Sanghyuk checked his musket yet again, making sure his pouch of black powder was tightly shut and protected from moisture. “We could write up my headstone now,” he added sardonically, “Han Sanghyuk. Murdered by no-good Frenchmen. 14 June 1815.”

“That sounds awfully defeatist,” Ravi rebuked him, finally taking off his hat altogether. The ground was hard beneath him, but it felt nice to rest his back against the cool metal of the cannon. “We can take him.”

Sanghyuk rolled his eyes, lurching forward to sit cross-legged. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but they already call Napoleon one of the greatest commanders and tacticians to ever live.”

Ravi cuffed his friend on the head, sending his hat askew. “Quit listening to the French. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so nervous.”

“I think I’m rightly nervous,” Sanghyuk replied, frowning and straightening his hat. “You’re not worried enough. Aren’t you afraid of death?”

His chest felt tight and the memory of a wheezing Ken and the endless parade of years following his death flashed through his mind. “What is there to be afraid of?” he murmured. 

“What?”

Ravi shook his head. “Nothing.”

***

“Take back Ligny!” the Prussian troops roared, charging into the flaming village despite the heavy artillery that was still falling around them. The heat and smoke were cloying. Screams of trapped and injured villagers carried through the air.

Ravi slung his musket over his shoulder and drew his sword. In the close quarters of the village where he was surrounded by bodies, burning houses, and soldiers both friend and foe, using the musket was impractical. 

He wasn’t going in any particular direction. His unit had broken up by a rush of French soldiers when they’d entered the village and instead of regrouping, he wanted to help the civilians evacuate. People streamed around him, always screaming. He cut through three French soldiers in the street, his slices and jabs too quick and precise to defend against. They collapsed, splattering Ravi with blood. He tried not to gag and refused to look at their faces. 

Stumbled to the closest house and ignoring the smoldering wall, he wiped the blood from his face. The sun was bright and the air was crisp. It was wrong for such death to be wrought on a beautiful day like this, Ravi couldn’t help but to think. The noon sun revealed everything as if punishing the soldiers for the carnage, refusing to let any of the gore hide in the shadows. The body of a young Belgian child lay crumpled in a doorway across the street, hands reaching out for someone who never came. 

Ravi rested his forehead against the crumbling wall, wondering what he was doing. It was not the first time he’d found himself in doubt. This killing and war felt wrong, but Napoleon was branded an outlaw and him and his army couldn’t be allowed to regain momentum. As many kings and emperors as Ravi had seen, he knew that consolidating power over all of Europe into one monarch over all of Europe would only end badly for everyone. 

Focus, Ravi reprimanded himself, taking a deep breath. He tried not to think of Sanghyuk, who he’d lost sight of with the rest of his unit. The man was likely dead and getting emotionally attached only made the pain worse. Again, he tried to tear his mind away from memories of Ken. Though more than 150 years had passed since Ken’s death, the wound was deep and often felt fresh. Ravi hadn’t been able to give up tea completely, especially considering how popular it became in England in the years following. Every cup seemed bitter without Ken’s accompanying smile. 

Ravi stepped away from the building, muscles tense. The French looked like they might call a retreat soon, so he’d best find the far side of the village and stop as many of them as he could. Sweat was beginning to drip down his forehead and the back of his neck as he skirted around the ruins of buildings and corpses that littered the street. He avoided looking at fallen comrades and enemies alike. Ironically, death was something he was intimately familiar with over his long life, and he didn’t need to see more gruesome reminders of the frailty of those around him. 

The distinctive sound of harsh French voices froze him in place. Ravi slipped around a corner to remain unseen, saber hilt clenched in bloodied fingers. Luckily, he had picked up a multitude of languages during his time wandering the Asian and European continents and French was no exception.

“You must leave him!”

“I can’t! He’ll die. I can’t just leave without him!”

The first voice responded, impatient and hard. “He’s going to die anyway, and we will too if we don’t leave. We’ve lost too many men and Pécheux is calling a retreat. Let’s go!”

Ravi peeked around the corner to see two men, both young and blood spattered. One was kneeling over the twitching body of another French soldier, while the first speaker was standing, pulling at his friend’s shoulder. The kneeling man clutched at his downed friend’s chest with white knuckles, face pained. Finally, his fingers loosened and he allowed his friend to pull him up and away. With one backward glance, they were gone, shrouded in smoke. 

Curiosity tugged at Ravi. He felt drawn to the man lying in the dirt, choking out his last breaths. There were no other French soldiers in sight.

Hefting his saber, Ravi stepped from the cover of the building and strode toward the wounded Frenchman. The smoke stung his eyes, but he determinedly blinked it away. When only two yards separated him from the injured man, a wild shot rang out, another unnoticed pop in the cacophony of noise. Ravi jerked, unsure what had happened and surprised to feel himself toppling to the side. 

He groaned in pain and shoved his elbow into the dirt to twist onto his back. Lifting his head was a chore, but Ravi managed catch sight of a blossoming red patch on the dirty uniform that stretched over his chest. _It hurts_ , he mentally moaned. How he wished for the ability to fade from this realm, to be unseen and unfeeling. Alas, he lacked the energy and the practice. It had been a long time since Ravi had faded to intangibility despite the pain that physical and human existence brought upon him. 

Indeed, there were some positives to be found about his situation. The ground was hard and dusty, but it got him away from the smoke. He would not die from his wound, though the pain would be lasting. The dying French soldier was but an arm’s length away and Ravi’s curiosity could be easily slaked with some minimal effort on his part. 

Trying to ignore the pain paralyzing his lungs and legs, Ravi twisted again, dragging himself past jagged chunks of blown out mortar and a pouch of black powder scattered across the dirt in a dramatic arc. He leaned over the Frenchman on bruised elbows, grimacing at the obvious hole torn through the man’s side. It was a miracle he hadn’t bled out yet, or perhaps a curse. The pain had to be excruciating. 

_No._

What was more unbearable than his gunshot wound or this poor boy’s mortal injury was the eyes staring up at him from beneath the French-style hat. 

“Ken…” Ravi whispered, voice shaking. A hand that he recognized as his own reached up and laid itself over Ken’s slowing heart. 

“Oh my…Ken. Ken!” Ravi cried in horror, wiping the sticky trails of blood away from the man’s nose and mouth. 

The man blinked slowly, as if underwater where sound was warped and the world moved at half speed. 

The pain of the bullet in Ravi’s chest had all but disappeared, replaced by the spiritual agony of having his heart torn in half. “Ken, no, no don’t leave me again. Ken, stay here! Are you listening to me? Ken, Ken!” he desperately cried, shaking the man’s shoulders. It was his Ken and there was no mistaking it. His spirit, the spark that drew Ravi so strongly was in this man, but it was flickering, fading away with every ounce of blood that pooled in the unpaved streets. 

Ken’s lips worked silently, his only words another trickle of blood sliding from the corner of his mouth. 

“I am always with you,” Ravi swore, the words echoing those spoken almost two centuries ago. “I will always find you, Ken.” The toll of his own wound soon demanded his attention as Ravi felt his arms weakening. He wouldn’t be able to stay conscious much longer. 

Ken’s eyes, brown and misty, met Ravi’s anguished gaze. His cracked lips parted. 

“Shh…” Ravi begged, wondering how many times he would have to endure this. “Please, Ken.” He didn’t even know what he was asking for anymore.

“…star…light?”

Ravi couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t know if it was because of his body’s catastrophic internal damage or that faint spark of recognition in the glazed eyes of his dying friend. Before the light vanished from Ken’s eyes and his head lolled to the side, from sickness, from war, Ravi’s consciousness was stolen and he slumped forward, head resting on the Frenchman’s side as he drew his last breath. 

***

When Ravi woke he was piled among the dead. 

He wondered if one day he might find relief, be released from his burden of living when those around him did not. When Ken did not. However, the spirit-deep exhaustion and pain were now tempered by the glowing light of hope. Like an oil-fed lamp in a dark, dark room, this small flame of hope battled against the night that threatened to extinguish Ravi’s light: he had seen Ken twice now, over a hundred and fifty years apart. First, he was a small child in England, one who grew into a man and died too young. Then, he was a French soldier in the wrong place at the wrong time, mourned by comrades and left to die in the ashy dust. Next, Ken would be…?

That’s what Ravi truly needed to find out. The idea that Ken’s spirit had carried on to be reborn was incredible and something Ravi had never truly contemplated before. He’d heard of reincarnation, of course, during his travels throughout the Eastern continents, the Asian cultures, one of which he himself hailed from. The Hindus and Buddhists talked much of this samsara phenomenon, the different lives to be born into and the path to nirvana. 

Ravi had no idea if seeing Ken again fit with the structured and sure ways of these religions, but he was damn happy it worked one way or another. What meant the most to him, however, the moment that he held closest to this heart, was when the dying Ken who had never met Ravi whispered “starlight,” the word Ken always used to describe his light. It was recognition. There was some kind of connection, no matter how tenuous, between Ken’s two lives. The Ken Ravi loved was not gone. While he may be changed, he was not gone completely.

“Ken,” Ravi told himself as he staggered away from the pile of corpses to be buried. “I haven’t lost you yet. I promised I would always be with you and that I would find you again. I won’t let you down.”

And these thoughts soothed the aching loneliness and gaping hole where Ken’s cheery, over-enthusiastic presence was missing.


	3. Chapter 3

After Ken died from sickness in England, Ravi lived out three more lifetimes. He immediately abandoned the coffee house and left the country, and spent some time in the Ottoman Empire and North Africa before traveling to India and eventually Prussia. 

He never owned another coffee shop. 

In 158 years, he never loved someone like he loved Ken. 

Watching Ken die the second time was bad, but not as bad as the first time. Ravi left the war, stumbling away from the grave site in the dead of night in his bloodied and torn uniform. Two days later, Napoleon was defeated at the Battle of Waterloo. Ravi never found out if Sanghyuk made it out alive from either battle.

Ravi escaped north to Antwerp in Belgium, and from there, paid his way onto a boat heading for America. He quickly realized that the open ocean didn’t agree with him, and suffered for the bulk of the trip. Luckily, the fact that he didn’t need to eat meant he couldn’t throw up. It was the small blessings that really counted. 

New York was something. It was dirty, loud, chaotic, and perfect. Even with Ravi’s special brand of oddness, he was just another immigrant in the bustling streets of the city. Though he wasn’t of Chinese origin, he eventually settled in Chinatown. Nationalities had ceased to have any strong meaning for him lifetimes ago. Though his Mandarin was beyond rusty and several hundred years out of date, it wasn’t too difficult to pick up the language again. 

Finding a job that he liked enough to keep was more of a challenge, one that proved to be too much in the end. It hadn’t been a year since Ken died the second time, and the restlessness seized him again, forcing him from New York and into the rest of the country. 

The years passed with the man never staying in place for long. Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana were too hot and muggy for his liking, and the further West one went, the faster the cities disappeared. Eventually he found himself walking alongside wagon ruts cemented into the mud through vast plains of swaying prairie grass. 

Once the groaning of overburdened wagons faded into the distance, Ravi stalked away from the path until he was completely alone. The lowing of bison bulls occasionally reached his ears, but Ravi was otherwise isolated. The endless sky and gentle slopes of the grassy hills served to remind him that despite his long life, he was insignificant in the larger scheme of things. It was also a brutal reminder that the world was vast. Ken had been an English child, then a Frenchman. He could be anywhere in the world, anyone, and old man or a child, or not yet born. Ken could be in China, working the rice paddies, an Irish bartender, or a farmer in Virginia. 

Ravi sank to the ground as despair overtook him. 

He wondered why he found it so difficult to connect with humans other than from Ken. Why were they chained together for lifetimes? 

A dark, burning feeling of resentment bubbled to the surface; choking his throat and making his eyes feel prickly. He was trapped in an endless search for Ken, the person who made him feel alive. Before Ken, he’d been ignorant. After having lived with Ken for what amounted to a split second in the endless span of the universe, being without him was not quite living. 

Sinking his fingers into the tough earth forced sensation upon him, literally grounded Ravi when he felt awash by churning emotions. He’d never felt this way about Ken before.

_What have you done to me?_

Hours passed with him alone in the tall grass, an unmoving figure amongst the bending stalks. Daylight faded into night and the buzzing orchestra of crickets and other insects was loud in his ears. The blackness of night was thick and encompassing away from the burning lights of the cities. 

The moon was but a curved platinum sliver in the sky, letting the stars shine bright. 

Ravi didn’t feel like starlight. He felt like a void.

Time passed, as it’s wont to do. Ravi’s limbs were stiff and sore from sitting in one position for so long, but his eyes never grew tired of watching the sky. The transition from day to night, seeing twilight fall and deepen into dusky night and the stars faithfully emerge every evening calmed something in him. His anger at Ken was soothed as he remembered their life together and the warm joy he experienced with another person for the first time. His connection with Ken wasn’t a curse, nor was it a blessing. It just was. They would meet again. 

He was awakened by something warm and moist gently nudging the side of his face. Ravi blinked groggily and squinted in the bright sunlight. Sometime during the night he’d slumped over and ended up lying on his back. Finding the wet nose of a buffalo so close to his head was shocking, but honestly, Ravi had dealt with weirder and he had a fondness for animals. Slowly, as to not startle the large animal, he scooted back, sat up, and rose to his feet.   
“Hello there,” he greeted the beast, carefully extending a hand. 

When the buffalo just bit into a patch of grass and blinked lazily at him, Ravi couldn’t help but to smile. He stepped forward and ever so gently patted the creature’s head. Its fur was thick and coarse, and its whitish-brown horns were longer than his hand. It bellowed and Ravi jerked back, afraid it would toss its horns and gore him. It just shook its head, latched onto another wad of grass, and blinked up at him. He laughed and gave it a few more pats before stepping back. 

“Thanks for the wakeup call,” he said, turning back toward the trail. He waved one last time. The buffalo just flicked its tail and continued to chew. Ravi eventually hit the wagon ruts and followed them back toward town. It would take a few days of walking to get there, but he didn’t mind. This was the calmest he’d felt since…well, since ever. The loss of Ken still hurt, but he and Ravi existed under the same constant starlight. That was enough.

***

New York was so different from the itchy grass and vast sky of the West, but it offered familiarity and masses of people that Ravi could get lost in. More cities constantly appeared since he first gained sentience and he had a tendency to stick to them wherever he traveled. Being around humans reminded him of what he was searching for despite his occasional feelings of alienation. That being said, there was something special about New York City. 

His return to Chinatown really brought home the fact that he’d been gone wandering the rest of the United States for over fifty years. Time meant so little that decades had slipped by and he’d hardly noticed. The city was so much larger now, and the people were different too. With the Civil War winding down, families and cities were in shambles. That was a war in which Ravi refused to get involved and though New York City wasn’t completely unscathed, the visible effects of the conflict were much less than in the Southern or border states. 

Seeing echoes of the battle where Ken was killed were hard, and though the man might well have been a soldier in the war, Ravi wasn’t going to look for him there. He’d had his fill of war.

Ravi spent time exploring the transformed Chinatown, but eventually decided against living there again. Instead, he found himself drawn to the theater district on in Manhattan. Music had always been a love of his, and the district attracted some of the most interesting musicians, composers, playwrights, and singers he’d ever seen. 

Though he’d only ever dabbled in writing, Ravi took to composing lyrics for theater shows like a duck to water. Working on a freelance basis while laboring on his own songs, he managed to scrape up enough money for a closet-sized apartment and an endless supply of tea. Sitting in the back of a dark theatre while men and women on stage put their hearts into singing the words he wrote filled him with warmth comparable to drinking tea with Ken or absorbing an orb. 

“We’re having a meeting with everyone involved in ‘The Black Crook,’” Hongbin yelled into the back of the theater. Ravi easily ignored him and continued filling in the next line of lyrics. 

“Seriously, Ravi. Put down the pencil and get over here!” Hongbin was annoyingly persistent when he wanted to be. If Ravi didn’t show up in another minute or so, the man would start throwing things at him to get his attention.

“Since the song I’m writing is for ‘The Black Crook,’ maybe you should let me finish,” Ravi hollered back. 

A blustery sigh echoed through the open space. “That’s why we’re having a meeting. Bring the sheet with you and come on.” The sharp tapping of Hongbin’s foot meant that his patience was quickly waning. 

Grimacing, Ravi gathered his work, slid it into a folder, and got up. “Alright, I’m coming. What’s the rush?”

The stage manager’s fierce frown came into view as Ravi skirted around the front of the stage. “Calm down, Hongbin. Everything always works out. Your face is going to stick into the scary expression if you don’t change it occasionally.”

“This is the only time the illustrator can make it when the rest of the production team is here. Everything works more smoothly when we’re on the same page,” Hongbin said while bodily dragging him into the office. “Especially our beloved and demented lyricist.”

Ravi smiled. He was totally the favorite. 

After Ravi was shoved into the room and the door was shut behind them, Hongbin clapped once to gain everyone’s attention. “Welcome, everyone. We have a great crew here working on ‘The Black Crook’ and will hopefully be able to open by early next month. We’re going over the details yet again to get a feel for what still needs to be done.”

Ravi rolled his eyes at Hongbin’s obsessiveness over his plays. Every detail had to go according to his plan at all times or his wrath descended and made everyone’s lives miserable. The song would be completed in time and the play would be wonderful. Ravi had no doubts. 

“I know that not everyone has met the illustrator who’s creating the poster for ‘The Black Crook,’ but I feel it’s important for us to know each other and communicate.” Hongbin gestured to a tall man standing to his left. “This is Jaehwan.”

Ravi wasn’t paying attention; instead, he had his papers pulled from their folder and was working on his lyrics. Illustrations were great and all, but it was difficult to extract himself from the words when he got in the mood to write. He was so used to Hongbin’s interruptions that he could pretty much have an entire conversation with the man automatically while continuing to mentally compose songs. 

“See, see, see, / See the sun in orient splendor / Gilding every glittering spray,” he mumbled softly, trying to hear the music in his head. “Hmm…”

“Ravi! Do you have to be so rude?”

Okay, so it was much more difficult to focus when he was being yelled at and having writing utensils thrown at him. Additionally, Ravi had very rarely been called rude throughout his long life and rather resented it. “Ah… Busy weaving jeweled chaplets / For our lovely Queen of May.” He jotted down the final lines before tucking the pencil behind his ear and looking up. 

“What?”

Hongbin sighed. “At least pretend you have some manners and greet our illustrator, Jaehwan.” 

Ravi set his papers aside and offered his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Jaehwan.” He smiled sincerely, but his arm froze mid-shake. 

Ken’s eyes and smile looked back at him, suddenly concerned. “Are you alright?”

Ravi forced himself to let go of Jaehwan’s, of Ken’s hand, and he nearly stumbled backwards.

 _I find him when I finally stop looking_ , he thought half-hysterically. 

“I’m fine. Sorry, just didn’t expect…didn’t expect,” he struggled for words. Ken, no, Jaehwan, quirked his head, questioning. “I didn’t expect someone so young to be so skilled at illustration. Your work is beautiful.” Ravi had seen none of Jaehwan’s work, but he was sure it was lovely. Ken always had nimble fingers.

“Thank you! That means a lot coming from you. I’ve been attending plays since I was a child and I’ve always loved your compositions, both instrumental and lyrical. I’m glad we finally have the opportunity to work together.” Jaehwan’s smile was blinding and perfect and Ravi wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

Perhaps this was one time that Hongbin’s desire to control everything was actually useful. “I’m glad you’re such fans of each other’s work.” He sent a significant look toward Ravi, perhaps seeing his lie and wondering why he bothered to pretend to know the man’s illustrations. 

Ravi ignored him and settled in the back of the room where he could stare at Jaehwan without being noticed.

Multiple times throughout the meeting, he caught Jaehwan staring back. 

That first meeting was just the beginning. “The Black Crook” went off without a hitch despite several of Hongbin’s minor meltdowns. The poster was gorgeous, the music was enchanting, and the actors played night after night, drawing in bigger and bigger crowds. Hongbin loved the crew so much that he hired them to work on another play together. 

Ravi was having the time of his life. Not only was he spending his time working on his passion, composing, but he got to do it with his favorite person, Ken. Their friendship was quick and strong and within a year, they shared an apartment in the heart of New York City.

It was hard sometimes, he had to admit. Jaehwan’s face was slightly different, and he didn’t have the English mannerisms that his Ken had. Jaehwan didn’t drink tea, but preferred sweetened coffee, and had family living in the northern tip of Maine. It hurt when Jaehwan jokingly insulted his tea preferences and scolded him for forgetting to buy food because Ravi could almost see the ghostly image of a 22-year-old Ken behind him.

Jaehwan was 28. He’d already lived six years longer than Ken. 

Ravi tried to remember Ken fondly and avoid comparing the two. While had the same spark of spirit, they were not the same person. For the first few months of their friendship, Ravi couldn’t get over the fact that he had found Ken again and it almost drove Jaehwan away. The unwitting expectations and immediate familiarity that Ravi had for and with him blinded him to Jaehwan’s differences and right to have his own identity. It took a shouting match, some tears on Ravi’s part, and a long walk in Central Park to make him realize how unfair his memories were for Jaehwan. He could and should remember Ken happily and treasure their time together, but he was making new memories with Jaehwan. It wasn’t bad, or dishonoring Ken; it was only different. 

That was one of the hardest realizations Ravi had ever faced in his 700 years of life. 

Jaehwan became a celebrated illustrator who worked for various magazines, newspapers, and publishing companies. When he came to Ravi for advice on women, Ravi almost dropped his bowl of soup to the floor. After a calm denial (“I assure you, I know nothing about women and my help would likely send her running the other way”), Ravi proceeded to give Jaehwan advice anyway because he insisted. Three years later, Ravi was the best man at their wedding. He offered to move out so the couple could live together, but they both refused. Ravi had thought that being with Ken was as happy as he could be, but seeing how happy and in love Jaehwan was with his wife allowed Ravi to become intimately familiar with the kind of joy one could feel for others. 

Shortly after Jaehwan’s two-year anniversary passed, Ravi asked if he could speak to him in private. 

“What’s the matter, Ravi?” Jaehwan was always jumping to the worst conclusions and worrying needlessly. “Are you alright?”

Ravi led them to the dining room table. “Sit down before you trip.” When they were both seated, he smiled and squeezed Jaehwan’s hand. “I’m fine. Stop your worrying already. I’ve just decided something.”

“Are you mad at me for accidentally dropping that glass? I promise to be more careful with the china, especially the stuff that you bought.” The man looked a little teary-eyed, which was ridiculous. He did have a penchant for breaking plates, though, that much was true. And the plates he dropped were Ravi’s more often than not. 

Laughing at him didn’t seem to help the situation, but Ravi couldn’t help it. He’d told Jaehwan countless times that he didn’t mind the constant destruction of his dishes. “Dishes are temporary, but friendship is forever,” he’d eventually started saying. 

“That’s not what this is about at all.” Ravi took a breath to shore up his confidence. He looked up at his friend, seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. “I did a lot of wandering before I met you. I’ve been all across the world and back again. I traveled far, but I wasn’t happy. Living here with you and your wife, making a little family together -that has made me the happiest I’ve ever been and I can never thank you enough.”

“Wha…Ravi, what are you saying?” Jaehwan choked out. “It sounds like, it, it sounds like you’re leaving!”

Ravi could feel tears building at the corners of his eyes. “That’s exactly right. I think I’m ready. I’m ready to travel again, but I’m going to do it right this time.”

Jaehwan swiped a hand across his eyes. “Is it because of me and…?”

“No!” Ravi immediately assured him. “No. I love her as I love you. You’re both family to me. It’s just that there’s something in me that needs to go again. I’m not sure what, but I know it’s time for me to see the world again. I’ve finally grown up.”

“Ravi…” Jaehwan was trying to hide his tears, but was failing miserably. 

“Oh Jaehwan,” Ravi laughed, ruffling the man’s hair. “No need to hide your tears from me. I still remember you bawling when you thought she’d left you for that pompous painter uptown. This isn’t goodbye, I’ll have you know. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Jaehwan cleared his throat and scrubbed his face with his sleeves. “It’s not?”

“No, you ridiculous man. I’ll be sending you two letters, and postcards at the least.” 

“You know my wife is going to be heartbroken when she hears about this,” Ken warned him. “She might tie you to a chair and refuse to let you leave.”

Ravi sighed. “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you both at once. If I’d had both of you crying on me, I’d never escape.”

They both chuckled before falling into silence and sobering. “You have to return,” Jaehwan told him. His eyes were dark and Ravi thought he could see Ken asking him about the night they first met. 

Ravi leaned forward and clasped Jaehwan’s forearm. He stared back into those fathomless eyes and spoke with as much solemn gravity as he could muster. With over 700 years coloring his words, he could manage quite a bit. “There’s nothing that could keep me away. I swear.”

Though his departure was sorrowful and bittersweet, the joy of traveling and meeting new people quickly filled his heart. First, Ravi visited the lower states again. He sent Jaehwan and his wife a letter from Texas: _I’ve met the most amazing little girl here in Austin. Her cleverness and wit is like none I’ve ever encountered. She reminds me of Hongbin, though. Everything has to be her way. Just when I thought I’d escaped him…_

From there, he left the United States and toured the European countries he’d never had a chance to visit the first time around. 

_Europe is like an old friend to me. So much is painfully familiar, but at the same time, it is all different. I feel close to the people here, particularly in England. I lived here for quite some time when I was younger. I’ve missed a good cup of English tea. Americans couldn’t brew a cup to save their lives. I’ve been staying with this kind old woman and her grandson. Though his father wishes him to join the navy, Sanghyuk wants to be a painter. I’ve yet to convince him to chase his dream of painting, but I’m working on it._

_I think I’m going to stay here for a while. A mailing address is enclosed. I’d love to hear from you both._

Travelling through India, Mongolia, China, Korea, and Japan brought back painful memories of hopeless, ignorant wandering where all he longed for was a real connection. This was soothed by a long string that tied his heart to New York, and the kind faces he’d left behind in England.

 _China is so different from what I remember. The cities have grown so much. Though my roots are from Korea, it’s so alien to me now. I think I’m ready to come home for a visit, if you’ll still have me._

So Ravi sailed to the United States once again. The journey felt much longer now that he had a destination and a home to miss. When he finally, finally set foot in New York, it was only to realize that over 20 years had passed since he’d left. They were twenty happy, fulfilled years, but two long decades nonetheless. 

When he returned to their old apartment, he was stupidly shocked to find that Jaehwan and his wife had moved. There was a letter waiting for him, though, that informed him of their new address. He almost wept at the fear that had overtaken him those few short minutes before he was given their address, thinking his family was lost for good.

Jaehwan and his wife had sent letters sporadically over the years, but Ravi was often on the move and hard to reach. He’d read that they’d tried to have children and couldn’t, but that they’d taken in her nephew until he turned eighteen. 

A strong case of nerves overtook Ravi when he walked up to their door. It was a small house, set back from the street. Though night was falling, the lights were on. He wanted to knock so badly, but he knew things would be different. Jaehwan would be old, while Ravi hadn’t aged a day. They’d lived such different lives. How could he think he still had a place in their family?

Ravi was staring at the scuffed toes of his shoes, mind scrounging for words he could say. Before he had mentally prepared himself, the door was yanked open and light spilled onto the porch. “Who’s haunting my doorstep at this late hour?” The voice was deep and heavy with years and knowledge: so changed, yet the same as it’d been twenty, two hundred years before. 

He looked up into familiar brown eyes and a charming, crooked smile. 

“I’m home.”

There were more tears during his homecoming than when he’d left. Ravi was welcomed with hugs and demands to know who he’d met and what he’d seen on his travels. The middle-aged couple easily made room for him in their lives, offering him their spare room and pointing him toward work in the bustling theater district. They didn’t question his appearance, why he still looked 22 years old. 

“I always knew you were a little different,” Jaehwan told him, grinning. “Did you think I didn’t notice that you wrote songs I listened to in childhood and you were still writing when I was in my mid-twenties? And you looked younger than me? Must be magic.” He wiggled his fingers.

Ravi was there when they lost Jaehwan’s wife. He made the funeral arrangements, held his best friend’s hand, and took over the cooking for the both of them because Jaehwan was still a nightmare around the fine china. He watched Jaehwan grieve and begin to heal. He did the same alongside him. 

Ravi was there when Jaehwan got a cold that wasn’t just a cold. It terrified him, sent him reeling into flashbacks of Ken coughing and crying and dying in their coffee house. Jaehwan was there to tell him it was okay, that he was almost 60 years old, and that he would find his wife again when he was gone. Jaehwan was there to tell Ravi that he was his most beloved friend, that there was nothing that could truly tear them apart as long as they were under the same starlight.

Ravi was there when Jaehwan smiled and took his last breath.

He bowed his head over the man’s still form. He was crying, but he didn’t mind. He very rarely regretted showing emotion, especially for those he loved. Their lives were too short to withhold demonstrations of love or pain. 

“I won’t wait for you, Jaehwan. But I will gladly welcome you into my life should you appear. You are always with me and I will always, always, love you.” He laid a gentle kiss on the man’s wrinkled forehead before turning to leave the room. He stopped by the door to turn and look back at the old, frail body of his dearest friend. 

Jaehwan’s spirit was gone. Perhaps it was already reborn, or maybe it would wait another five, ten years to reappear. 

With a smile, he turned and left the room. 

***

It was over one hundred years later that Ravi opened another coffee shop. Though he’d never developed a taste for coffee, it reminded him of Ken and Jaehwan. He named it Ravi’s. It was simple, but it was true. The coffee shop was his home, somewhere he settled and felt comfortable. He found his piece of the world. He didn’t need Ken to be happy anymore; he was no longer the only person Ravi could connect with. He had his customers, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of that lovely family in England (he just pretended to get old or be his own child when he wrote them letters), and his neighbors. Of course, having Ken in his life in any way would make it that much more complete and joyful, but Ravi had finally figured out how to live for himself. He didn’t need Ken to love life, but the ridiculous man made it that much better. 

Ravi wanted to laugh hysterically when he held interviews for baristas and a man with Ken’s mischievous eyes and penchant for destroying his dishware showed up thirty minutes late. He was a half hour late, but he was just on time.

“Welcome to Ravi’s, Ken. Glad to have you aboard.”

“Those dishes will be coming out of your paycheck.”


End file.
